


The Field Beyond Ideas

by Vera (Vera_DragonMuse)



Series: sins of our fathers [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-25
Updated: 2012-05-25
Packaged: 2017-11-06 00:28:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_DragonMuse/pseuds/Vera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love, Jim determined early on, was a complicated beast that resisted neat classification.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 2001.

**Author's Note:**

> While this is technically the epilogue of Sins of Our Father, this is really Jim's story. I'd always intended the series to be about the effect John and Sherlock's fathers had on them, but I couldn't end it without talking about the kind of fathers they in turn became. 
> 
> Also, this lacks a beta and a britpicker because I'm impatient.
> 
> Also also, Irene is a mix between the BBC version and the original cannon version.

Love, Jim determined early on, was a complicated beast that resisted neat classification. He was unsure if he’d ever felt it himself. According to his psychiatric records (procured by Sherlock and read together when Dad was out at the pub), kids in his situation usually suffered from some kind of attachment disorder. He should be unable to feel affection for his guardians. That he had instead settled tenaciously into his new family was quantified as some unknowable new disorder that Dad jokingly referred to as Stockholm Syndrome. Whether he actually loved his adopted parents was a moot point. He certainly liked them, trusted them and needed them to sustain him, so love seemed rather beside the point. In any case, Jim didn’t feel particularly disordered and at thirteen, he could at least naming love when he saw it.

There was parental love. Dim in his memory was the touch of a motherly hand on his forehead and the gentle voice of his biological father. Then their murder, the bloody horror of it and the sharp hands of the woman who accepted his messy body like an inconvenient package. Love wasn’t a word used in the Moriarty household. 

But Dad loved him. Jim knew this because Dad told him at least twice a day (“Have a good day with Anthea, I’ll see you for dinner, I love you” “Lights off at ten. I love you. Goodnight”). Dad hugged him and told him improbable stories when he woke up with bad dreams. Dad talked to him about his day and listened intently. Dad cooked dinner, packed lunches and presided over homework. Dad loved him with a steady, unstoppable warmth. 

Sherlock loved him. He never said it unless things were really bad (“And that’s how you make a tourniquet. I may pass out. I love you”), but he was good at showing it. Even though Sherlock was always busy, he made time to build things, run experiments and go running through the streets for the sheer joy of it. Sherlock never asked him to call him father or dad (“You’ve already had quite enough of those”) and never bothered with rules that he knew Jim would only break. Sherlock loved him with a knowing steel. 

Then there was sibling love which Jim had no way of experiencing himself. He watched Uncle Mycroft sweep in to fix disasters, then disappear again like a magician. Uncle Mycroft loved from afar with deeds and tireless devotion. He watched Aunt Harry, who came and went with a loud clattering of things and opinions. She would take over whatever space she was in and hand over her problems to Dad to solve. They would talk late, their dirty blond heads bent together with the occasional burst of laughter drifting through the flat. Aunt Harry loved with her needs and her hopes. 

To add further complications, there was romantic love. His only models for that were Sherlock and Dad, who were unquestionably bound together. It was a love that permeated every aspect of them. It was the background noise of Jim’s life, texturing his days. Some people (Mrs. Hudson, Sarah) called it ‘sweet’ or ‘romantic’ while others (Jim’s ex-therapist) muttered things like ‘co-dependent’ and ‘unhealthy’. 

Jim also saw love unreturned. There was Greg, who loved Uncle Mycroft in a patient, abiding way without expectation. It was clear in every gesture and tender remark, from the way he straightened Uncle Mycroft’s tie to the way he gently teased him. There was Molly, who longed for Sherlock so intensely that Jim found it embarrassing to be around her. 

That was the love in Jim’s life: full of selfishness, warmth, greed, affection, desire and tenderness. It was what he had to work with. 

“I think,” he told Dad as they made lunch one Sunday afternoon when he was thirteen, “that I’m in love.” 

“Are you?” Dad pressed a grilled cheese sandwich under a spatula, “With who?” 

“A girl from my swim class,” he put cheese between bread with a slice of tomato for Sherlock’s sandwich, “I met her last month.” 

“What’s she like?” 

“She’s very clever,” Jim closed his eyes picturing her, trying to think of things that would matter to his father, “and she does an amazing butterfly. She’s faster than anyone.” 

“Does she have a name?” 

“Irene Adler,” Jim liked the feel of it on his tongue, “she’s an American and just turned fourteen.” 

“An older woman, excellent choice,” Dad grinned, “so when did you decide that you loved her?” 

When she’d sat down beside him last month at practice. Jim usually sat with the other boys his age. He didn’t really have friends. Sherlock had taught him how to blend in (“Act like John”) and how to avoid getting bullied (“Stop acting, the dead eyed look should work”). It worked well enough and he was left to his own devices which was lonely, but safe. When Irene has sat down right next to him, he’d felt an unusual tingle of pleasure at the novelty. 

“Hi,” she’d said as if she didn’t know that every young male eye in the room was on her, “you were in lane three today, right?” 

“Yes,” he wasn’t nervous because he didn’t get nervous. Nerves were things that happened people that weren’t Watsons. 

“You do a great breaststroke. It’s too bad that the relays are gender separated. I bet if we were in the same one, we’d win every time.” 

“Thanks,” he’d looked at the water instead of her dark eyes, “that is too bad. You’re better than any of the guys here.” 

“I know,” she’d grinned and his heart started to pound, “if I cared more, I’d start a campaign, but swimming isn’t my main thing.” 

“What is your main thing?” 

“I’m a singer,” she’d nudged his shoulder, “what about you? Swimming your deal?” 

“No, not really. I design computers and I like chemistry.” 

He’d waited for the sly comments or the beginning of a dig, but she’d only asked questions and good ones at that. Every practice since then, she came and sat next to him when they were both out of the water. And then yesterday, she’d leaned over and kissed him on the cheek before running out to meet her mother. The kiss had set his skin tingling and his mind racing. 

But he didn’t say any of that to Dad. 

“I don’t know. It just sort of happened,’ Jim slid Sherlock’s sandwich into the pan, “all at once.” 

“Yes, love can be like that,” Dad said softly, “just be careful with your heart. And you should probably take her on a date before you tell her.” 

“I wasn’t going to tell her!” 

“Sorry!” Dad laughed, “of course, I should have known. But you can have her over if you want.” 

“Are you crazy? She’ll take one look at this place and run in the other direction.” 

“Do you think?” Dad glanced around the flat as if seeing it for the first time. Sherlock and Jim’s projects were everywhere, an explosion of debris that Dad had long ago started tidying around instead of up. “I don’t know. Any girl you like will probably enjoy it.” 

“Enjoy what?” Sherlock arrived in the kitchen, looping an arm around Dad’s midsection and kissing the back of his neck, “I’m starving.” 

“Then stop getting in Dad’s way,” Jim rolled his eyes, “you should have eaten dinner last night.” 

“I wasn’t hungry,” Sherlock peeled himself from Dad’s back and gave Jim a quick once over, “were you talking about that sly American from your swim class?” 

“Stop deducing me,” Jim wrinkled his nose in irritation, took his finished sandwich and stomped up to his room. 

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock knocked and then let himself in. 

“The point of knocking is so I can decide whether or not you can come in,” Jim pointed out, crossing his arms over his chest. He’d eaten, then sunken back against the pillows on his bed with a worn copy of Grimm’s fairy tales open on his lap. 

“Is it? Fascinating,” Sherlock sat on the end of the bed, one leg tucked up under himself, “I assume that I offended your delicate sensibilities. I’m not entirely sure how.” 

“Did you ask Dad?” 

“He told me to talk to you.” 

“She isn’t sly at all. She’s clever and funny and I’m in love her” he blurted because Dad’s advice was well and good, but Sherlock understood in a way Dad didn’t.

“Are you?” Sherlock looked him over again, “So you are.” 

“Dad thinks I should invite her over her for a date, but I think he’s crazy. That’s crazy, right?” 

“I think it’s normal,” Sherlock always said normal like other people said ‘herpes’, “most people date.” 

“You didn’t,” Jim knew that story already. Or the parts he was allowed to know. And some he shouldn’t thanks to storytime with Uncle Mycroft. 

“No. I made a decision a long time ago that John was the right person and I’ve never had enough reason to doubt that decision. Dating would have been redundant. That may not be the same for you.” 

“What if it is? What if Irene is it for me?” 

“Then you will have to do your best to keep her and the only advice I can give you there is that you must learn how to apologize and change when necessary.” 

“You’re always telling me not to apologize.” 

“You should never apologize for being correct. However, I frequently find that in closer relationships, one is often wrong regardless of one’s intelligence,” Sherlock observed, “for instance, you were wrong to have a fit over a simple question and I was wrong to ask it that way.” 

“I’m sorry,” Jim tested the words. He can’t remember if he’d ever said them to Sherlock before. They sounded rather hollow. Perhaps because he didn’t feel the least bit sorry.

“So am I.” Sherlock repeated in the same tone. 

They regarded each other in silent understanding across the expanse of the bed. 

“She’s really very clever,” Jim said and Sherlock nodded, a slight smile creasing his lips. 

At practice the next morning, Irene was wearing a new dark red swimsuit that matched her toenails. Her fingernails were bitten off, broken things, but her toenails were perfectly round and scarlet. She wiggled them with pleasure when he mentioned it. 

“Mom thinks I’m too young for nail polish, but she figures almost no one will see my feet except at swim,” she said. 

“Dad says I’m too young to go bungee jumping,” he offered in return. 

“I would love to do that! I bet it would be like doing a dive off the high board.” 

“Well, you’ll have to come with me then, when I turn sixteen.” 

“That’s a long ways off,” she folded her knee under her chin, “what should we do until then?” 

“You could come over,” it’s out of his mouth before he’s properly thought about it, “to my flat.” 

“Yeah?” 

“It’s chaotic and you can’t open the refrigerator, but there’s a lot to do. If we get bored, Sherlock is usually looking for a guinea pig.” 

“Sounds like fun, I’ll have to ask my Mom. Would Saturday be ok?” 

“Sure. Yes.” Jim had no idea if it was ok, but he no longer cared in the least. 

When Sherlock came to pick him up, he was given the once over and a raised eyebrow. 

“Irene is coming over on Saturday,” he said carefully. 

“Hm. We’ll have to clean up some, won’t we?” 

To Jim’s frank astonishment, Sherlock followed that comment up by actually cleaning. After a few minutes of gaping, Dad had pitched in and called Mrs. Hudson up from downstairs to participate in the miracle. Jim was put in charge of his own projects, sorting and stowing them in the plastic bins that Dad had bought ages ago. 

When they finished, the flat wasn’t exactly neat, but it was safe to walk around barefoot for the first time in memory. Mrs. Hudson even baked biscuits to disguise any lingering odors. Jim actually missed the faint whiff of decay and formaldehyde, but it was worth the effort when Irene arrived that afternoon with her mother. 

“Hello, Mrs. Adler, I’m John,” Dad greeted her at the door, “please come in. Can I get you a cup of tea?” 

“Thank you, but no,” Mrs. Adler smiled thinly, “I only wanted to introduce myself before dropping off Renee.” 

“Hi, Jim,” Irene reached out for his hand, “show me around?” 

“Sure,” he left Dad and Mrs. Adler to talk by the door. 

“Your Dad has some great books,” she ran her finger down the library shelf and he was suddenly profoundly grateful for the dusting it had been given, “what’s he do?” 

“He’s a doctor. Works at a clinic a few hours a week and consults with the Yard the rest of the time. They’re mostly Sherlock’s books though. He’s a detective for the Cold Case Unit.” 

“What about you? Where are you books?” 

“Up in my room.” 

He left the door to his bedroom open, letting her peruse his shelves as he fiddled idly with a fried motherboard. She peppered him with questions about various titles, then settled on the edge of his bed. 

“What’s that?” 

“Alistair, one of Sherlock’s co-workers, he brings me things to experiment with,” he set it aside then rustled deeper in his newly filled parts bin, “this is better.” 

He spread the guts of an abandoned mobile out on the bed. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen the insides of one,” she stroked a finger over the tiny exposed speaker, “it’s beautiful.” 

He decided right then that he was going to marry her. Maybe while bungee jumping.

“I’m going to make my own,” he drew out the plans he’d been working on.

“You can do that?” She peered over the blueprints and his chickenscratch notes. 

He proved to her he could by reassembling the phone while she told him about her singing lessons, the swim team’s various failings and how much she liked London. He listened like he might get quizzed afterwards. 

“I’ve got tea and Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits downstairs if you like,” Dad announced, looking around the doorframe. 

“Thanks, Dr. Watson, that sounds great,” Irene bounced to her feet and Jim followed as if she’d tied a string around her wrist. 

And it was actually great. Dad didn’t ask her any awkward questions or say anything too embarrassing. After a few minutes of idle chatter, he wandered out of the room and back to his laptop. 

“Whose Mrs. Hudson?” Irene asked as she took another biscuit. 

“She’s our landlady, but she’s also a friend,” he wiped his fingers meticulously against the napkin. 

“That must be nice. Our landlord is never around. Mom has to call him like a dozen times to get anything done. She complains about it all the time,” she broke the biscuit in half, “and we don’t have a lot of friends.” 

“Why not? I mean, everyone at swim seems to like you.” 

“Oh,” she laughed, but it’s not the bright bell that he’s used to, “they’re not my friends. The boys just want to stare and the girls think I’m strange. I’m not interested in the same things. That’s why I knew right away that you and I could be friends.” 

“You did?” 

“Sure. You look me in the eye. And you talk to me like I have a brain.” 

“Of course, I do,” he frowned, “why wouldn’t I?” 

“See, that’s exactly what I mean,” she gestured at him with the broken biscuit, “you’d never think that I didn’t.” 

“Just because a girl is beautiful, you can’t assume she’s not smart too,” he shrugged. 

“You think I’m beautiful?” She asked, a teasing smile lighting up the edges of her lips. 

“Yes,” he looked her right in the eye, suddenly confident, “and clever and maybe really dangerous. But that’s good. We like dangerous things in this family.” 

“Dangerous?” Now she laughed and it was her real, happy laugh, “What could be dangerous about me?” 

“That is the question of a dangerous person,” Sherlock walked into the kitchen, stealing a biscuit from the plate. 

“Hello, Mr. Watson,” Irene said politely, “how are you?” 

“Sherlock,” he corrected, jamming most of the biscuit in his mouth, before wandering out into the living room, “John! Where’s my violin?” 

“Oh no,” Jim buried his face in his hands, “flee while you still can.” 

Sherlock appeared, bow in hand like a sword aimed at Irene. 

“I’ve heard that you sing.” 

“Yes, sir,” she glanced at Jim who only groaned. 

“Come. I require vocal accompaniment for this piece and Jim’s voice cracks too much to do a credible soprano.” 

“Revenge,” Jim hissed at Sherlock as they exited into the living room, “painful, bloody revenge.” 

“You’ll thank me later,” Sherlock replied serenely, taking up his instrument. Then he turned on Irene and rattled off song titles at her like a gatling gun until she nodded at one. 

The performance that followed glued Jim to the sofa. He was used to Sherlock’s violin singing plaintively or shrieking in protest depending on its owner’s mood. Mostly he was immune to its charms by now. Irene’s voice was wholly new. After a strained beginning, her shoulders relaxed and lovely trilling notes rose up to play with Sherlock’s flying melody. Jim listened with his entire body. For the first time in his life, he was perfectly awake, perfectly aware. The tattered remains of his affections strained forward like plants to the sun after a long winter. He’d been wrong. He thought before today he’d been in love, but this! This was the real thing. 

“Bravo!” Dad clapped loudly when they’d finished. Dazed, Jim joined in a few seconds late, but he could tell by Irene’s wide smile that she understood. 

“You’re really good,” he told her when Sherlock began to play again, this time at John, who laughed at some obscure joke between them. 

“Thanks,” she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as if suddenly self-conscious. 

They stared at each other, red creeping across their cheeks when the doorbell rang. Mrs. Adler waited with a pained expression as Irene put her shoes back on and gathered up her things. 

“I had a good time,” Irene said softly, capturing Jim’s hand and squeezing a little. 

“Yeah, me too.” 

Then she was gone and Jim put his hand to his heart and swooned dramatically back onto the sofa. Dad and Sherlock laughed and he laughed with them, even though he was in deadly earnest. He understood love, he decided. It was pretty simple when you met the right person.


	2. 2007.

The front steps were cold and the book in his hand deadly dull. Everything lately had taken on a dull, greyed out tone as if the world had been drained of all its promise. He’d gone through phases like this before, but this had been the longest. 

“A black mood,” Dad had diagnosed long ago, eyes cutting across the room to Sherlock, “seems to come along with genius.” 

The black mood soaked through everything, ruining what was usually pleasurable. He turned away from his studies, his experiments and his few tenuous connections with the outside world. He wanted to curl up and be left alone, his thoughts churning endlessly back on themselves. Today he’d forced himself out of bed to perch on 221’s stoop, but it was doing nothing to restore his usual manic good mood. 

The soft ping of heels on cement paused in front of him. They were a wicked shade of green with the kind of pointed toe that suggested great pain to anyone that crossed the wearer.

“Jim,” she said softly and just like that he was grinning. 

“Hello, darling,” he sprang to his feet to kiss her, deep and messy, the slick slide of her lipstick marking him. 

“Hello,” she laughed, pulling away. 

“What the fuck, Irene?” A woman that Jim hadn’t noticed (unacceptable, a dark mood didn’t mean he could afford not to pay attention) demanded. 

“Oh, Jim, this is my girlfriend, Cassie. Cassie, this is Jim.” 

“Hi,” he offered his hand. 

“Bastard!” a hand descended across his cheek, a bite of nail in it.

“Cassie!” Irene protested. 

“You cheating bitch!” Cassie spat, “The other girls warned me about you. I should have listened. You really are a slag.” 

“You’ll want to leave now,” Jim said carefully, his voice and face drained of all expression, “Very quickly.” 

“Jim,” Irene’s hand wrapped around his bicep, squeezing hard. 

“Damn right I want to leave,” Cassie spun around and headed back up the street. 

“Why do you never warn them?” Jim sighed in exasperation. 

“I suppose it’s a bit of a test,” Irene’s hand dropped away, “foolish, I know.” 

“It’s cruel, darling.” 

“To them?” 

“To me,” he rescued his book from the ground, brushing off some dirt, “I’m not a tool.” 

“Then perhaps I am a little cruel,” she sighed, “only I wanted to see you and she would insist on coming.” 

“You wanted to see me?” The glad spark of warmth that he could never fight lit in his chest. 

“Absolument,” she reached over and tidied his hair, “you need a trim. Your father called me. Said you were acting like a wet mop.” 

“Dad’s got a big mouth,” but Jim didn’t begrudge him this sweet intervention, “you can cut my hair if you want.” 

“I’d make a hash out of it,” she laughed, “come let’s get you seen to and then have a nice dinner.” 

“I’m not hungry.” 

“Then you can watch me eat.” 

The haircut didn’t take long even with Irene offering continual advice to the patient stylist, who was clearly taken with her. Everyone was taken with Irene. She’d only grown more beautiful over the years and Jim admired her in the mirror as scissors flashed around his head. 

“There, better already. You look less like a hermit, now.” 

“I am a hermit.” 

They ventured out to a cafe where Jim could drink tea and she could dissect a croissant layer by layer to melt on her tongue. 

“What’s got you in such a slump?” She asked as she nibbled. 

“It’s never anything specific,” he shrugged, “I just woke up one morning and everything was...lesser. I don’t know. I don’t feel challenged by anything. It’s all so unbelievably dull.” 

“You should try anti-depressants again.” 

“Irene!” 

“I mean it, Jim,” she waggled a finger at him, “you get into these funks and your massive brain only weighs you down. You’re brilliant. You could do a million and one things, find a hundred passions. I won’t accept ‘dull’ as a reason to turn off the world.” 

“You don’t have to accept anything.”

“You’re my lover,” she corrected, “if you’re unhappy, so am I.” 

“I’m your part-time, when-I-feel-like-guys shag. That’s not a lover, Irene. That’s a crime of opportunity.” 

“You’re my best friend,” her hand covered his, “Don’t you love me?” 

“You know I do,” he turned his palm to capture her fingers, “but that doesn’t make us lovers.” 

“What other definition could you want?” 

“It doesn’t matter,” he smiled brightly and dropped her hand to pick up his tea, “the point is, I’m not going to take pills. I don’t like them, don’t like what they do to my head. And you didn’t come back home just to hound me, I assume. Tell me everything else.” 

“You won’t get away that easily.” 

But Irene loved to talk and soon she was telling him stories of her new brave life in the theater. She hadn’t quite made it big yet, but neither of them had any doubts that the day was coming and soon. He listened, tea going cold and his newly exposed neck pricking with the passing breeze. The world was unfairly bright with her there. The jewel red of her lipstick, the dazzling whites of her eyes and the crisp dark perfection of her hair melded with the cream of her voice and for a few precious hours, he couldn’t even imagine dullness or lassitude. 

“You should come live with me,” she said when they at last paid their bill and drifted back to Baker Street, “it isn’t healthy to still live with your parents at nearly twenty.” 

“I don’t think your little commune would appreciate me,” he shrugged loosely, “and a lot of people still live at home at this age.” 

“Not people who already have a doctorate.” 

“Who else has a doctorate by twenty? I’m a marvel,” he laughed, “a genius, a malformed prodigy with social deficits. It’s completely normal for me to live at home.” 

“You should come with me,” she looped an arm around his shoulders drawing him close to her perfumed skin, “we would have such a wickedly good time.” 

“Would we?” He imagined being another body in the packed townhouse she and a dozen other West End hopefuls called home. They were an average bunch of twentysomethings with a thousand tiny dramas played out between them, “I think it’d be a nightmare.” 

“You can’t pretend with me. I know who you are beneath the shy exterior. There’s a wild man in there, Jim. I’ve seen him.” 

“Maybe I’m not letting him off the leash for a bloody good reason,” he wanted to jerk away, but somehow wound up burrowing closer, “maybe he’s dangerous.” 

“In this family, we like danger,” she chided, enfolding him. 

“It’s Dad and Sherlock’s twentieth anniversary next month,” he said because it was easier than anything else, “you should come to the party.”

“Your Dad already invited me and you know I wouldn’t miss it,” she pulled back enough to kiss both his cheeks, “you should come by soon, help me pick out a new girlfriend.” 

“They’re not outfits.” 

“Says you.” 

Jim reached out for her one last time, kissing away her lipstick, her words and her sad expression. 

“Go on then,” he said quietly when he pulled away, “you’ve got a life to get back too.” 

“Goodnight, Jim.” 

“Goodnight, Irene.” 

He watched her leave, the extraordinary line of her body cutting through the ordinary London night. Only when she had disappeared entirely did he pull a bunched up napkin from his pocket to wipe away the last sticky traces of her from his lips. Then he trudged up the stairs. 

Both of his parents were in the living room doing an excellent job of appearing totally uninterested in where he had been or what he was doing. Dad was in his usual chair, frowning at his laptop while Sherlock was thrown artistically over the sofa. 

Jim surveyed them, arms crossed for a long moment. Then he focused on Dad. Sherlock was too good to crack under basic scrutiny, but Dad folded like a house of cards after a few strained seconds, 

“Did you have a good evening?” He asked, all innocent and mellow. 

“You didn’t have to sic her on me,” Jim crossed to the window, gazing out into the darkened street. 

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Dad came up behind him, resting a hand on his shoulder. They should look nothing alike in the glasses reflection, all things considered, but Jim found similarities anyway. Maybe he’d learned this expression from his father, the mix of sadness, fondness and irritation. 

“I’m a grown man. I can wallow if I like.” 

“I don’t like to see you in pain.” 

“I’m not hurting. Just...numb for a while. It will pass, it always does.” 

“As I said,” Sherlock chimed in from the couch, “but he never listens to me either.” 

“Because you both think it’s some kind of payment for your brilliance,” Dad snorted and turned his back on the both of them, heading for the comfort of the kitchen, “you can have both. You can be clever all the time and content. It’s not one or the other.” 

Jim met Sherlock’s eyes in the window and that expression was definitely shared. The faint incredulousness in a lifted eyebrow and the softness around the mouth because neither of them wanted Dad to understand. It’s a terrible thing to comprehend. When your brain ran so much faster, calculated so nimbly, then the world was bound to become predictable and hollow. Sherlock had Dad, had his work to keep it all in check. Jim was yet unmoored, dangerous in his lack of focus. 

“You can’t wait for her,” Sherlock said softly, eyes drifting back to the ceiling, “she’s not coming.” 

“I know that,” Jim pinched his nose, “I’ve always known that. I’m not waiting for her.” 

“Then what’s keeping you here?” 

It was a good question.


	3. 2012.

The rucksack hit the floor by the front door with a satisfyingly familiar thump. He surveyed the flat, unsurprised to find it nearly unchanged since he was last home. The detritus had shifted slightly, a few bookshelves reorganized and the skull had found a cheery companion in a jar with a preserved brain, but otherwise things were just the same. 

“Welcome home,” Dad folded Jim into a tight hug, releasing him only a little to look him over, “the tan is new.” 

“Tanzania,” Jim smiled, “I went through all the stages of burnt until finally my skin just gave in.” 

“And now you can cultivate skin cancer with the best of them,” Dad smiled, “I liked the postcards from there, not as much as the ones from Thailand though.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jim sighed, “all right. Enough of that. Where is she?” 

“In your room,” Dad looked up the stairs with concern, “she came in three days ago and asked if she could stay for a bit. Still had her hospital ID on. Her mother calls everyday, but she isn’t talking to anyone.” 

“Not even Sherlock?” 

“He hasn’t tried,” Dad snorted, “just lingers around the living room looking uncomfortable. I suggested he bring her a tea tray yesterday and suddenly he had to get back to work.” 

“Coward.” 

“So am I. That’s why I called you.” 

“Has she eaten?” 

“Here and there.”

“Right, I’ll come back down for a tray in a bit, if you don’t mind?”

“I was just about to put on the kettle anyway,” Dad stepped aside, “you will stay for a few days this time?” 

“Yes,” Jim turned to the stairs, “maybe for good.” 

Without checking Dad’s reaction, he went up. The door that was once his had been firmly closed. He knocked. 

“I’m not dressed,” a hoarse voice informed him. 

“That’s an invitation I’m powerless to resist,” despite everything, a smile crossed his face, “are you wearing a nightgown? Is it lacy?” 

“Jim?” The door cracked open and he could see her unpainted face in the shadows, “You’re in Sydney this week.” 

“Am I?” He leaned against the doorframe, “then I must be his good twin.” 

“You shouldn’t have come,” her voice was painfully serrated, “I’ll be fine. I always am.” 

“Let me in,” he pushed gently at the door and it gave. She stood uneasily in the unlit room with its anatomy posters and jumbles of dusty electronics. Wrapped in one of Dad’s old cotton robes and her hair pulled back from her face, she looked more like the Irene he had first met than she had in years. 

“Jim,” she started and then the tears started. He drew her into a tight embrace, letting her hide her face against her neck. 

“Hello, darling,” he kissed her forehead and walked towards the bed so they could collapse together onto it, “heard you had a bit of a rough month.” 

“It’s over,” she clutched at his shirt, “the doctors think I’ll regain my speaking voice with time. But I’m never going to sing again. Not like I did.” 

“I know,” he stroked her back, “I heard the whole sordid thing. Like something out of a gothic novel.” 

“Sherlock caught her,” the familiar viciousness comforted him, “he had her in custody before I came out of surgery.” 

“Where did she even get a hold of that kind of acid?” 

“She was always a resourceful viper,” Irene laughed and it sounded painfully raw and rusted, “I sharpened the serpent's tooth though.” 

“You can’t blame yourself. She was insane.” 

“Can’t I? You always said I was cruel and you were right. I’ve been terribly cruel these past few years, Jim. You don’t know what I’ve been like since you left.” 

“We talk all the time,” he reminded her, “I think I know exactly what you are and perhaps you did break her heart, but most people are smart enough to walk away from that without cooking up acid laced mouthwash.” 

“It’s something you would do.” 

“Please give me credit for more subtly than that,” he paused thoughtfully, “and I don’t think it’s possible to break my heart. Not for you.” 

“I’ll never understand that,” she wiped her eyes on the cuff of the robe. 

“There’s nothing to understand,” he’d thought about it a lot as he traveled never letting the dust settle around him, “I’m hard in places people shouldn’t be. You got in somehow, between the cracks and they sealed over around you.” 

“That doesn’t sound romantic.”

“It isn’t. It’s only the truth,” he tugged her back down, so her head rested on his shoulder, “What will you do now?” 

“I was thinking I could put a certain subsection of my skills to good use,” she mused, laying her hand over his stomach, “I would make a good dominatrix, don’t you think?” 

“Why would you do that?” 

“I’m good at it and it would give me a truly stupefying amount of blackmail if I get the right type of clients.” 

“What do you need blackmail for?” 

“What does anyone need it for? I was counting on being famous. Without that, I’ll never be wealthy. Never have any kind of power.”

“What would you need wealth and power for? It’s only responsibility and boredom dressed up in gold and silver,” he ran a hand through her disheveled hair, “enough for good clothes, good food and a way to escape to wherever you want to go should be just the right amount.” 

“I’m addicted to the attention. I love the applause, the appreciation. I don’t think I can live without that.” 

“You can live without anything at all, if you have too.” 

“And what would you know about that?” She laughed shakily, “You’ve never wanted to for anything.” 

“The depth of things that I have lived without rival number,” he swallowed back an incoherent tide of rage. This was an ignorance of his own making. A preservation of his image in her eyes. Possibly a miscalculation. 

“Tell me,” she demanded with renewed passion, clutching him tightly to her. Without moving their positions have reversed, “You never really talk, Jim. Did you know that? All these years and it’s me filling the void with endless words and you never say anything important.” 

“I didn’t speak for three years,” he said. 

“Why?” 

“There was a woman I called mother and she beat me until I wouldn’t speak anymore.” 

The story spilled out of him like a pressurized hose. In all the years of therapy and careful loving parenting, he had never told another soul all of it. Dad and Sherlock knew already, of course, and they never made him talk about it.   
Put together out loud for the first time, it was a murder mystery, someone else’s life rendered in melodramatic music and dark cinematics. When he was finished, he tried to determine if he felt better or worse. In the ensuing silence, he determined that it was neither really. It was one of the many numb spots in his mind where other people kept their complicated senseless emotions. 

“Oh, Jim,” her face was wet against his neck, her hand rubbing soothing circles over his chest, “why didn’t you ever say anything?” 

“It didn’t matter. It still doesn’t,” he turned on his side, enfolding her in his arms, “it’s like it happened to someone else.” 

“It explains you though.” 

“Does it?” 

“Why you’re so much....more, somehow. I always thought you were realer than anyone else I knew. Like someone had stripped you of all pretense a long time ago.” 

“I lie,” he reminded her, “all the time. I’m full of falsehood.” 

“Not to me.” 

“You are, as ever, the exception.” 

“What should we do now?” She asked, rubbing her nose against his, “We have a whole day in front of us.”

“Dad’s making tea.” 

They slipped down the stairs, hand in hand like children and settled together at the kitchen table with their knees pressed together while Dad fussed over them. A great quantity of tea was poured, sandwiches heaped on their plates and a plate of biscuits settled between them before Dad was willing to retire to the living room. 

They ate in silence, eyes catching each other occasionally then sliding shyly away. For the first time in many years, Jim didn’t feel enslaved by her or swept away or enthralled. He only wanted to enjoy this moment together, warm, cared for and comfortable. 

“Tell me the first thing that comes to your mind,” she demanded, “don’ t think.” 

“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing there is a field. I'll meet you there,” Jim recited softly, “When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about.” 

“Who said that?” She asked, hooking her leg around his, drawing him closer. 

“Rumi.” 

“It sounds like a nice place that field,” she played her fingers over his hand until he twined his fingers through hers, “we should go sometime.” 

“I’m tired of traveling. I want to stay here. Do something new while staying put.” 

“Don’t. Not for my sake.” 

“No, for mine,” Jim brought their joined hands together, kissing the seam where their fingers met, “there’s a career I want to pursue.” 

“What career?” 

“Primary school teacher,” he waited for her to laugh, but she only nodded slowly. 

“It would never be dull.” 

“Exactly. Children are unpredictable,” he grinned at her, “so think of it. Teacherly me.” 

“I can picture it.” 

“I’ll get a flat of my own, use some of the old Holmes money for a nice one with room to tinker if I get an idea. Can you see it?” 

“I can,” she laughed, “and where will I fit in?” 

“Oh, on the sofa, with your shoes kicked off and a glass of wine in your hand if you like. Telling me about your new fabulous career.” 

“Just the sofa?” She asked, something unfamiliar and soft in her eye. 

“Well-” 

The front door banged shut, the stairs clattered under heavy feet until the flat door opened in turn. The long body jetted around the corner, eyes wild. 

“Jim!” Sherlock grinned, wide and manic, “you’re home! And you’re staying!” 

“So I am.” 

“Deduced it from his bag?” Irene asked amused, even as she released Jim’s hand so he could greet Sherlock with a proper hug. 

“John texted me,” Sherlock corrected. 

“At work, I might add,” Dad poked Sherlock, “are you still on the clock?” 

“Perhaps, but Lestrade doesn’t care,” Sherlock released Jim to loop his arm over Dad’s shoulders, “Hello, Irene.” 

“Sherlock,” she smiled and something tight in Sherlock’s face loosened all at once, “thank you for your hospitality.” 

“Stay as long as you want,” Dad cut in, “we’re always happy to have you.” 

“Oh, thanks, but I think we’ve got a flat to be looking for, haven’t we Jim?” 

“Do we?” He didn’t turn around to look, trying to read her as he used too. He imagined she was grinning. “I don’t remember saying we.” 

“You didn’t. I did.” 

Her newly graveled voice added too many variables. He had to turn to study her face which held no smile at all. 

“Ah,” he turned back to Sherlock who only shrugged. 

“So that’s that then,” Dad laughed. 

“So it would seem,” Jim repressed the grin that wanted to escape. He heard Irene’s chair move, preparing him for the slide of her arms around his waist, the pressure of her head between his shoulder blades. 

“I love you, Jim” she murmured into fabric of his t-shirt. 

“Do you?” he clasped his hand over hers where they rested on his stomach. 

“We should...” Dad tugged at Sherlock and they fled to their bedroom. 

“I want that flat with you. I think I could figure this out, if you’re with me.” 

“What happened to not wanting me to stay for you?” 

“It sounded good when I said it. It’s what I’ve been telling you for years.” 

“I know.” 

“But it’s wrong. I’m too selfish for that kind of declaration.” she kissed the back of his neck, “I want you.” 

“No more flings?” 

“No,” she vowed into his ear, “no more. Just you and me now. For as long as we can both stand it.” 

“You’re sick,” he pointed out, “weak and I just flew in at the nick of time to offer comfort. Is this a complex of some kind?” 

“You are a terrible person,” she said, amused, “No. You’re not my white knight or my prince charming. You’re still Jim, who showed me circuitry as a first date, took my virginity after bungee jumping, and wrote me dirty limericks on postcards from twenty-three countries.” 

“Twenty-four. You haven’t gotten the Tanzania one yet. I mailed it just before I left.” 

“Twenty-four,” she amended, “you’re Jim, is the point. My Jim. There’s no one else in my life like you, you know. And you talked about your flat and I knew...that’s where I’m meant to be. On your sofa with a glass of wine. I could see that so clearly with you there, my feet in your lap.” 

“What about power and money? A teacher is a humble thing.” 

“You’re Jim Watson, nothing about you is humble,” she kissed his neck, “we’ll be amazing together, I think. Who knows what we’ll do?” 

“Who knows?” He echoed, turning to draw her properly into his arms. He searched her dark eyes for some hint of the gaming, but he found not even a shred of amusement. “Irene, I love you.” 

He had never really understood love, he realized as they kissed in washed out light of the afternoon sun. Maybe people like him weren’t meant too. He was no kind of poet, no kind of romantic at all. He loved Irene without words, without reason. He loved her with a possessive intensity that probably violated laws. He loved her reflexively, a spinal reaction that couldn’t be stopped or eased. He wasn’t sure yet how she loved him. Perhaps he never would. Irene could be like that, mysterious and full of shadows. Still, he intended to spend the rest of their lives trying to figure it out. It was a challenge worth taking.

**Author's Note:**

> The Mycroft/Lestrade coda fic will probably take me a while, but it will get written. Otherwise, I would call this series complete. Unless I get smacked in the face with a plot that I can resist. It's been known to happen!


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